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early2000smovieimagines · 2 years

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Meeting and Courting Erik

(Not my gif)(Requested by anonymous)

- The worst thing about being a female musician is that; unless you have a lineage to ride the coattails of, you’re oftentimes not taken seriously. The orchestra is reserved for lithe men with bushy moustaches and three piece suits and little girls are lucky to be ballerinas or background actresses; if anything at all.

- But you always held onto the hope that you’d get your chance, and that hope payed off when the owner of the Opera Populaire stumbled across your playing and invited you out to the city of Paris so that you could work in his Orchestra.

- You were over the moon once you’d heard the news and had to pinch yourself in order to ensure that you weren’t dreaming. It all seemed too good to be true …and oh how true that statement would wind up being....

- Once you arrived at the theater, it took all of three minutes for you to realize that you weren’t going to be anything there besides a glorified maid. But, thinking you could at least study under the greats and have a foot in the door; no matter how painful, you decided to bite the bullet and stay.

- During the day, you ran around in circles like a chicken with it’s head cut off: meticulously tending to every wish and whim of the composer and his musical associates. But during the night, once all your chores were finished and forgotten, you were able to marvel at the beauty of the theater and practice your playing; whether in the pit or just in the privacy of the broom closet you called a bedroom.

- That was where Erik first came across you.

- About a month into your stay; once you’d finally managed to get settled in and form a routine in which you weren’t too exhausted to practice, you found yourself sat in one of the chairs in the orchestra pit, following along to the music you’d just about memorized from the sheer amount of times you’d listened to it being played.

- The music carried faintly throughout the entire theater until it reached the phantoms ears, drawing him closer and closer until he’d finally reached you; his heart skipping a beat once his eyes landed on your figure amongst the sea of velvet seats.

- Thus marked the beginning of his obsession; though it would still take a bit of time for him to make his physical approach....

- Though him not revealing himself to you didn’t mean that you didn't feel his presence nearby. You’d oftentimes see shadows or figures just out of view or feel the skin prickling sensation of someone's eyes on you while you went about your day; especially while you were alone.

- Those sorts things were easy to dismiss, feeling things was always easy to dismiss, …but tangible proof was another thing entirely. Your broken strings being replaced in the night or your instrument being perfectly tuned every morning was not nearly as easy to ignore. And with talk of the opera ghost buzzing all around you, you had a funny feeling that you knew exactly who was doing it....

- Teaching someone how to play an instrument requires a certain level of physicality so you won’t have to wait very long for “Erik” to show up in your life. He can’t guide you with only his voice, especially if he wants you to excel, so he introduces himself; though he doesn’t let you know who he is.

- There’s hundreds of eccentric faces in the opera house so while seeing him in the flesh is a bit jarring, you don’t immediately suspect that he’s the fabled phantom. He comes to you as a friend, a gentleman who compliments your playing yet offers you guidance, promising that you’ll “be great” if you’ll just allow him to be your teacher. …And you eagerly accept, trusting him blindly....

- At first, he coaches you with a delicate reserve: circling the room as he instructs you with his voice and restraining himself whenever he corrects you with his fingers. But after your manager walks in on your much more perfected playing; ignoring your attempts to tell him about your teacher who’s suddenly vanished and left you alone in the room you were practicing in, he becomes much more intimate with you; under the guise of needing to guide you more closely if you’re going to be in a real orchestra.

- Your practice sessions move to his lair where he takes you up in his arms and presses himself close to you, his hands moving across your body as he instructs you to “feel the music” and other innocent things turned seductive by his tone. Somedays, after the song ends and you realize the state you’re in, you grow embarrassed and detangle yourself from him, wanting to save face after realizing how improper all of it had been; your heart still racing as you make an excuse to leave....

- It isn’t long before the “opera ghost” begins to take a liking to you, writing letters to the owners of the theater and making demands about how they should be treating you.

- As the owners resist, your competition is sabotaged until they have no choice but to favor you, pushing you to stardom as you try your best to hide the black ribbon tied rose that’s found its way into your instrument case; the beating of your own heart drowning out the hushed “phantom” filled whispers that surround you.

- Perhaps this is unnecessary to add in but there are definitely moments prior to you getting into a relationship with Erik that the opera ghost humiliates a man who’s dared to flirt with you; calling him a pervert and other things of the sort through one of his infamous notes.

- There’s also probably a moment where his mask gets caught in your hair and is pulled from his face, causing him to lurch away from you as if he was burned. You’ll move to see what’s wrong and he’ll yell at you to stay where you are, prompting you to stiffen and whip your head back to the other side of the room; swiftly apologizing and feeling as though you’ve somehow done something terribly improper.

- He’ll snatch his mask back and quickly place it back onto his face before he turns to look at you again; seeing that you’ve obeyed his command and continued to stay still. His heart will swell at how respectful you are and he’ll quietly tell you that you can turn back around; apologizing himself as he swallows down his jumbled nerves.

- Regardless of these moments, Erik confesses his feelings to you during the night of your first shows final performance.

- You don’t see him until late in the evening when you arrive at his lair: expecting to celebrate or at least be met with a bit of praise from your teacher. But that isn’t the case and you grow worried at his quiet demeanor and seemingly distracted mannerisms before you ask what’s wrong and get your answer.

- He sits you down while he clutches something in his hand, telling you that before you begin again, he must ask you “this”. He extends his hand and shows you a diamond ring, his voice trembling faintly as he looks you in your eyes and asks if you’ll “be his”.

- His proposal isn’t unexpected but it does surprise you. You’re aware of the romance between you but you hadn’t expected something so soon so you’re left to fumble for the right thing to say. Finally, you blink back your joyful tears and tell him “I’m yours”, smiling up at him while he processes what you’ve said.

- For the first time since you’ve met him, you see him truly smile, his eyes misting as he slips the ring onto your finger. He gazes down at your newly bejeweled hand before placing his own gloved one on your cheek, leaning down to connect your lips in a delicate and loving kiss.

- And thus begins your fate, an eternity of him before your eyes....

- Public displays of affection; for obvious reasons, aren’t very common in your relationship but if they were, he’d be prone to acting like a perfect gentleman: being polite but purposeful in his touches and mimicking the mannerisms of a man from high society. Jealousy may make him a bit touchier but your unwavering adoration would typically placate him; your obvious favoritism filling him with a smug sense of pleasure.

- He oftentimes moves to hold your hand whenever you’re together; whether he’s leading you somewhere or just sitting down with you, but his touch is so delicate that you oftentimes feel the lingering sensation of his grasp even after he’s removed himself from you.

- Gentle caresses. He treats you as if you’re vapor: in constant danger of fading away, should he touch you too quickly or too brashly.

- Hugging you from behind is one of his favorite things to do; his hands stroking across your body as his face nuzzles into your hair. It doesn’t matter what the circumstance of his touch is, he’ll always find a reason to press himself against you.

- Sometimes his kisses are rough: domineering and searing with passion; oftentimes from a bout of jealousy or far too much time spent away from each other. But other times they’re gentle and sweet: his movements featherlight and filled with a joyful sort of love that he reserves only for you.

- Erik loves pet names; both giving and receiving. He loves the intimacy that they provide: knowing that he’s the only one calling you those things and that you love him enough to want to call him something so tender. Expect a lot of theater or art references and things like “my angel” or “my darling”; they’re his favorite terms of endearment.

- It takes a while for Erik to grow accustomed to having you; though it’s in a positive and content sort of way. He cherishes the time he spends with you; as if it isn’t going to last, which is why he has a habit of watching you sleep; marveling at your beauty like you’re a priceless work of art.

- Looking at you; in general, is a pretty common habit of his. He finally has the chance to study your features up close and he’s not going to waste a second of it. No matter how long you’ve been together, he never gets tired of seeing your face.

- But, when he isn’t sitting up on his elbow and gazing at you, he’s cradling you in his arms: your face in his chest, his arm under your neck and his hand holding your hip/waist.

- Touch starved is the only way to describe him. Any affection you give him is received with the melting of his body and the fluttering of his eyes. He relaxes instantly at your touch and aches to have it whenever you’re near.

- It’s why you should place his head in your lap, cushioning him with the frills of your dress and the plump flesh of your thighs as your hand strokes lovingly through his hair. It’s the least he deserves.

- Speaking of the frills of your dress: he occasionally dresses you up the same way you would a doll, placing you in glamorous gowns and gently styling your hair. Once he’s done, your reflection gazes back at you in the form of an angel and his a man of god; ready to pray at your alter and worship you for as long as he lives.

“You spoil me.”

“There’s no such thing.”

- He does everything in his power to ensure that you’re happy and provided for, and that oftentimes means that his monthly allowance is; at least partially, spent on gifts. You can try to insist that he doesn’t have to buy you things but the most effective thing you can do is combat his buying with buying of your very own.

- Purchase him books to occupy himself with or food for the two of you to share and the expense he spends on you will feel at least somewhat repaid. And you’ll get to see his somewhat surprised yet fond smile whenever you hand them to him.

- But, regardless of everything else he gives you, his music is his greatest gift of all and his sharing of it should not be underemphasized. His work is very personal to him so you being allowed to hear and see it proves just how much he trusts you and loves you. In giving you his music, he gives you his heart so treat it with the utmost care and respect.

- Having him sing for you and being urged to sing for him as well. You don’t even have to be a good singer: he’ll either coach you himself or bask in the earnestness of your clumsy vocals; enjoying how sweet and intimate they sound.

- Considering the fact that the entire beginning of your relationship revolved around you playing an instrument, one could imagine that he’d occasionally ask you to play: whether it’s just to listen to you perform or if it’s him enlisting your help while trying to come up with the different instrumental portions of a new musical.

- He’s; obviously, more of an organ man himself, and you’ll oftentimes get the chance to listen to him play: though he’ll sometimes play in order to let off a little steam so try and gauge whether he’s hitting those keys a little too hard. You might need to give him a hug or implore him to vent to you.

- But, if you’re not someone who’s musically inclined, you’d still have a seat beside him in box 5 and the ability to appreciate his art through the theater troupes impressive performance of it.

- It wouldn’t take you long to pick up on little pieces of theater lingo and the first time he heard you nonchalantly show your knowledge, he couldn’t help but smile. He thought it was adorable; regardless of whether or not you actually knew precisely what you were talking about.

- Marveling at his miniatures and the other creations he has hidden away in his lair.

- Exploring the ins and outs of his domain, oftentimes; if not always, with him as your attentive guide.

- You always feel as though you’re in a dream when you’re with him and it’s one that you pray you’ll never wake up from. It’s wonderful and overwhelming all at the same time and there’s not a single thing inside it that you’d ever wish to change.

- Though he’ll always have a flair for the dramatics, he’ll also begin to let his guard down and act more like himself the longer you’re together. He’ll feel less of a need to appear over the top and mysterious in order to draw you in and make you love him; allowing you to see the real him.

- Although, even when he’s dropped his act, he’ll still find it difficult to let you see him without his mask. He’ll hurriedly cover his face whenever it manages to come off and he’ll insist that he’s a monster and that you won’t want to see him no matter how much you try to assure him that you’ll still love him: so you just try your best to be patient and wait until he’s comfortable enough to show you himself.

- Comforting him and letting him know that there’s nothing he can do that would ever make you abandon him. Sometimes he’ll dream that you’ve left him for good and you’ll wake to find him pacing or clutching you as close to him as possible, and you’ll just give him a quiet “I love you” to ease his nerves and let him know how much you care.

- There’s going to be a lot of working through trauma but he’s definitely someone who’s worth it. He’s not a perfect person but he’s willing to get better in order to make you happy and that’s all that really matters.

- Quiet companionship. He likes being in the same room as you even when he’s busy with his own work so you’ll oftentimes find your own thing to do while you stay down there with him.

- Sitting in forgotten corners and up in the rafters with him: watching as the sun sets or the people around you go about their day.

- Dancing together. You’ve probably taken him to a masquerade ball and it’s a memory he holds very close to his heart.

- Imagining him cooped up in the theater day in and day out tends to upset you so you try your best to sneak him out from time to time; even if it’s just for a measly little picnic in the cemetery or forest.

- Him appearing out of nowhere because he knows all the little ways to get in and out of the rooms you’re in without being caught. You’ve grown so accustomed to his sudden invasions that you’re probably one of the easiest individuals to kidnap; considering the fact that you merely sigh contentedly every time someone touches you whenever you think you’re alone.

- Always sensing that he’s near, even when you can’t see him. He’s almost always watching you and it’s sort of comforting in a way: knowing that you’re not alone; even when you’re as nervous or scared as can be.

- But him watching you also means that you can never hide something from him; even if it’s just an innocent surprise. He’ll pretend to be shocked for your sake but you’ll never actually manage to do so organically. At least he’ll always know when he needs to comfort you without you having to explain what happened.

- Him always being there for and taking care of you. He enjoys looking after you and making sure that you’re healthy and happy so expect him to do whatever he can to have you stay that way.

- Please give him praise. He’s used to insults and mockery and being known as a menace or a freak so compliments coming from you; the person he loves the most, will mean the world to him.

- You’re the only one who’s capable of calming him down with just a single word or touch. He’s a sucker for you and his anger fades the moment you go soft on him.

- This is arguably stupid but I think Erik deserves to have a pet cat and I think you should be the one to give it to him. They can keep him company whenever you’re not around and they can also help with the rat infestation: they’re a multipurpose friend!

- Madame Giry routing for your relationship to work out and doing everything in her power to help the two of you whenever it was necessary. She’s your biggest ally in the garish light of day.

- I feel like he would occasionally disappear for days at a time; particularly before the two of you started courting each other, and then suddenly speak to you from his usual hiding place; taking you by surprise. You’d ask who was there and he’d somewhat teasingly ask if you’ve forgotten your angel; bringing a smile to your face as he shows himself to you once more.

- It’s probably fairly obvious by now but Erik is definitely a possessive lover; especially since your relationship is so secretive and hidden away from the outside world. He relishes in you “belonging” to him but it’s only because he belongs to you just as much, if not more.

- He’ll oftentimes sabotage situations in order to keep you all to himself: though they’re oftentimes things you aren’t necessarily excited for or replaced with such a wonderful scenarios that you don’t even mind nor notice that you’ve missed them until it’s too late.

- Erik is, at his core, a very jealous person, but how he reacts to his jealousy will oftentimes depend on the situation at hand and how you behave in response to it. If you show no interest in the man, the phantom will react in a much more civilized manner: writing a pointed note or making an anonymous threat; focusing more on how annoying it must be for you to deal with as opposed to the way it makes him feel. But, if you appear to actually like the person, things won’t end nearly as neatly....

- It’s honestly best not to mention it whenever someone insults or otherwise makes you feel uncomfortable because; before you know it, your lover will have taken it to the extreme and dealt with the situation in an oftentimes less than desirable way.

- He’s willing to do everything in his power to ensure that you’re safe and killing someone in order to achieve that tranquility will not be out of the ordinary for him. Be sure to insist that you don’t want someone dead whenever something winds up happening to you; though I can’t guarantee that that clarification will stop him from at least imposing some sort of damage onto them.

- Erik has a bit of a temper so; even though he genuinely hates getting into arguments with you, fights still break out between you every now and again; usually prompted by some sort of outside force or his own insecurities. He has a tendency to snap whenever he’s upset so don’t be surprised if he lashes out at you: raising his voice and/or saying something cruel in the heat of the moment.

- You’ll resign yourself to giving him space; or storm out in your own fit of anger, and you’ll keep away from him for a while: going about your business like usual and ignoring how awful you feel.

- Typically, if you want to make up with him, you’ll have to seek him out yourself: journeying back into his domain and finding him in varying states of agony. He’ll be taken aback by your sudden appearance; thinking that you staying away from him meant that you hated him or that your pride was too strong. But his momentary surprise won’t stop him from almost immediately latching onto you and apologizing as he whispers about how he thought you’d left him forever; effectively breaking down any resolve you had left in you.

- Erik’s love for you drips from his every pore so even if he didn’t say the words everyday, you’d still know exactly how much he cared for you just from his actions alone.

- No matter how much time passes nor how long you’ve been apart, his love for you remains just as strong as it was the first time he saw you and he’ll prove that to you everyday that you spend together for the rest of your lives.

#phantom of the opera x reader #the phantom of the opera imagine #the phantom of the opera imagines #the phantom of the opera headcanons #the phantom of the opera headcanon #erik poto #phantom of the opera erik #erik imagine #erik headcanons #erik headcanon #erik imagines #phantom of the opera imagine #phantom of the opera headcanons #phantom of the opera headcanon #phantom of the opera imagines #the phantom of the opera 2004

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fangirlingpuggle · 2 years

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Half asleep dumb DP AU/Fic prompt idea where Danny’s halfa state instead of being able to change back and forth is just permanent ghost form but able to still pass as human he can’t go ghost, he just is ghost.

He just has the white hair, green eyes, glow all the time there’s no transformation. He has to dye hair constantly as using ghost powers changes hair back to white he also has to wear contacts. and just throws jacket on or some change of clothes when he tries to be phantom, but it’s super obvious to most people...other than Jack and Maddie who haven’t noticed kid is just perma ghost.

Sam dying his hair regularly and her and tucker coming up with costume ideas for Danny to change and them always having a set for Danny to change into.

Vlad being the same having to use costume makeup to make his skin not look blue all the time and every time he wants to be plasmius spends ages gelling his hair.

More ghosts realising Vlad and Danny can get away with this and that Ember and Johnny did so a lot more ghosts just pretending to be human and walking through Amity like ‘Yes hello fellow humans how are you today? How is your blood? Mine is fine and definitely is not ectoplasm’

Amity Park residents being very confused but eventually being like you know what real life is so fucking weird this might as well happen.

‘Why does that guy have green skin?’

‘He says he just feels sick’ or ‘It’s a skin condition’

‘that person doesn’t have legs’

’Yeah they say it’s also part of their skin condition’

‘It’s a weird skin condition that pop star Ember talked about it’

‘Wait wasn't she a ghost’

‘...I feel like we’d remember if she was a ghost’

Ember going back to being a pop star the lunch lady actually working in the cafeteria ect cause Danny and co are just like ‘Hey don’t try to take over the town or kidnap or kill people were good you do you’ and so just leave most of them to it and Amity Park have just accepted this. Jack and Maddie just get confused over why their equipment is malfunctioning so much and haven’t caught on to the fact half the town are ghosts.

Bonus: Ember is back as super star and paparazzi keep taking pictures of her and her boyfriend... that is just Skulker wearing a fake moustache. That’s his human disguise.

#danny phantom #au #fic prompt #dp #dp au #danny phantom ghosts #danny fenton #danny phantom skulker #danny phantom ember #vlad plasmius #humor #sam manson #tucker foley

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randomrabbidramblings · 8 months

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With people here talking about Phantom doing drag lately, I remembered I made this a while ago, but I don't think I've ever shared it, so here's Prima Donna, the real drama queen!

It all started with an ask from @hostess-of-horror and then this image rotted in my brain for a bit. I drew something a while ago, but never really shown her entire costume. Prima Donna's outfit is heavily based on the one Carlotta wears in one of the scenes from The Phantom of the Opera (the 2004 movie to be precise). Her capriciousness is only rivaled by her love of pink and frilly things.

Little headcanon, Phantom does not shave his moustache for this, he just dyes it white and combs it in the rest of his face fur to hide it (far be it to remove his trademark, lol).

#rabbid #rabbids #mario rabbids #mario + rabbids #mario+rabbids #sparks of hope #phantom of the bwahpera #rabbid phantom #tom phan #my art

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braxiatel · 10 months

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If I were an artist I would call this a doodle, but as I am a writer I will have to call it an unfinished, unedited abandoned wip.

Mumbo and Scar meet in a bar and commiserate about the struggles of being a young adult. Eventually they kiss. Also Scar is trans and Mumbo is autistic because I wrote this fic for me and me alone <3

(Content warning for references to alcohol, sex, and mentions of a character getting disowned)

————

Scar woke slowly to the sound of birdsong.

The pale spring sun was on his face, as warm as the body next to his in a way that made him feel a pang of homesickness.

He stretched, listening to how his joints popped and creaked, before opening his eyes to look around the unfamiliar room.

He had known it was not his city apartment - excuse him, flat - since he registered the birds. The closest he got was the coo of the pigeons that nested above the grand train station. Nothing like the chitter-chatter of songbirds he could hear here. Must be in the suburbs, then.

The room gave little away. Somewhat austere with its dark walls, the closest thing to decorations being a bonsai tree that was somewhat overdue a trim, and of course the rows upon rows of bookshelves with their arranged books standing to attention. Scar blinked, unable to make out the titles between the sleep in his eyes and the darkness of the room.

Instead he turned to look at the person next to him.

The combination of messy black hair and pale skin brought back vague recollections of the prior evening. Flashes of the interior of a very familiar bar, a hand in his, and a row of empty shot glasses in front of him. Well, that explained the pounding headache, at least.

Scar dared to lift the covers a little, getting a better look at his bedmate.

A handsome round face, smeared by last evening’s eyeliner. The moustache had been neatly combed with wax last night, but now it was somewhat comically askew on the man’s face.

“It’s a mouthful. My friends just call me Mumbo.”

“Mumbo?”

“As in Jumbo.”

“Well, what a lovely name you have then, Mumbo Jumbo.”

Scar blinked. Right, he had met Mumbo at the back of the bar.

It was an older place, with good food and decently priced drinks, that meant it had survived since the early ’00s when karaoke rooms had been a must for any self-respecting club.

These days it was mostly used by couples looking for privacy, or by people looking for somewhere to do the sort of substances the owner would kick you out for even bringing into her establishment, the door half obscured by the very curtains that had once framed it as a main selling point.

In short: it was a sound-insulated place in an otherwise noisy environment, with comfortable sofas, that few people other than the poor bugger making the cameras knew about.

It made it the perfect place to catch his breath after a long evening at work. The next guy to man the security cameras had been two hours late - exam season emergency, apparently - and Scar didn’t feel like sitting in the break room where - once again - Angela had just opened a window to smoke rather than going outside, making the whole place an asthma attack waiting to happen.

So Scar had tucked his bag into the basket of his walker and gone into the karaoke room expecting a quiet moment when instead-

“Well, hello there.”

Years later Scar would claim his immediate thought was something in the direction of either “handsome” or “beautiful” depending on what mood he was in, but honestly in that moment he had mostly felt shock followed immediately by concern.

The man in front of him looked as though he had just witnessed something gruesome. Eyes wide, with a faraway gaze and shaking hands.

“Oh, sorry, is this off limits?”

In the present Scar was looking at the man’s sleeping form, marvelling at what a night’s rest had done for him.

Light stubble decorated his soft jawline and Scar’s fingers itched to feel it. Mumbo’s lips were slightly parted in a snore, and he felt their phantom presence on his own. His arm was heavy around Scar’s waist, though it did not feel possessive so much as protective.

Similar to how he had been holding himself when Scar had found him. Huddled in the corner of a couch, as if trying to make himself far smaller than he was.

“No, no. I just came here to sit down,” Scar said. “but I can leave you to it.”

The bus home didn’t arrive for another 20 minutes - if it were on time for once - and his joints would surely protest if he tried to wait it out in the cold winter air.

“There’s room,” the man said, pulling his long legs up to his chest.

Scar paused for a moment. The stranger did not seem dangerous. Upset, perhaps, but there was a million and one reasons one might be upset. He sniffed the air and detected no more alcohol than was usual for the bar.

Well, it was a big couch, there was certainly room for two.

The cracked, white leather sank beneath his weight, creaking as it shifted. The stranger winced but otherwise stayed where he was.

Not a week went by without one of the other employees telling Scar he should try working the bar sometimes. He obviously couldn’t, not with how long it required him to stay on his feet. It didn’t stop him from spending his breaks there though, talking up a storm with the customers and doubling their sales while he was at it.

He was what one might call a people-person, though he very much doubted he would have missed how tense the man in the room with him was even if he hadn’t been.

“My name is Scar, and who might you be?” he asked.

Perhaps he had been wrong in his assessment of how drunk the man was, or perhaps Scar himself was more tired than he had though. Either way, the sentence the stranger spoke was an unidentifiable whirl to Scar.

“What was that?”

The stranger sighed.

“It’s a mouthful. My friends just call me Mumbo,” the man - Mumbo - explained.

“Mumbo?”

“As in Jumbo.”

“Well, what a lovely name you have then, Mumbo Jumbo.” Scar could not keep the smile from creeping into his voice. “Now, Mumbo, I am no expert, but it seems to me that something is bothering you?”

Mumbo shifted, turning his face halfway from Scar’s and resting his face on his knee, resulting in a lock of his hair obscuring the other half. Well, so much for keeping an eye on the stranger with whom he was alone.

“Long night,” Mumbo told him. “I just needed a break. I don’t do well with loud noises or crowds.”

Scar made sure to keep his voice down when he spoke next.

“Interesting place to go on a Friday night, then.”

Mumbo shrugged. “Well, there’s not a whole lot of gay parks or gay cafes about. The man i was meeting up with wanted to meet here.”

Scar offered a look of sympathy.

“Date gone wrong?”

It was at this point he learned that Mumbo was the blushing type, when his cheeks darkened.

“Something like that…”

Scar inched a little closer, feeling the insatiable itch of curiosity.

“You know, people tell me I’m a good listener,” he fished. “I can go first if you’d like. My love life is abysmal. I haven’t had a date in months, and my last steady relationship was with a straight guy.”

Mumbo looked up fully, pausing for a moment, before he said:

“Tonight was a frankly terrible - and misguided - attempt at getting over my flatmate.”

“This sounds like the sort of conversation we could both use a drink for,” Scar said, having long since learned that this was the way of the British. “What’s your poison?”

Mumbo hesitated.

“My treat,” Scar hastened to add. “I get a staff discount.”

“... [Mumbo requests a drink].”

“Coming right up, good sir,” he said.

Another perk to working here was being able to skip the busy friday night line - sorry, queue - at the bar. He was back in the quiet room in no time, balancing the two drinks on a tray.

“Please don’t spill any. You really aren’t allowed to drink in this room, so if we ruin the sofa or the carpet it will get docked from my paycheck.”

Mumbo accepted his drink, clasping it tightly between his two hands.

“Cheers,” he sighed, taking a sip. “How did you end up dating a straight guy?”

Mumbo, it seemed, was the forward type.

“I’m trans,” he said. “We were still together when I realised. He was good about it, you know, just didn’t want to date a guy. We parted as friends.”

“Right,” Mumbo said. “Congrats? On the gender?”

Scar couldn’t help but laugh. “Why thank you, Mr Jumbo, that’s very kind of you to say.”

“My flatmate is straight too… or he was, anyway, until recently. Turns out being in love with him was a lot easier when I thought he wasn’t into men. Back then it was the idea of dating a man he wasn’t into, and not…”

“You?” Scar guessed.

“Yeah, that,” Mumbo sighed, having another sip of his drink.

“Well, he’s a fool to overlook such a handsome man.”

Mumbo snorted.

“You are!” Scar told him. “Look at you. That luscious hair, the stylish suit, those beautiful grey eyes, and those curves? I’d say you’re quite the catch, Mumbo Jumbo.”

Somewhere between the compliments and the way Mumbo bit his lip and blushed Scar had a realisation. Yes, Mumbo was quite handsome, wasn’t he?

“Well, you must be just about the only one in this bar who feels that way. My date walked out after half an hour, and I’ve failed to talk to even a single other man tonight.”

“You’re talking to me,” Scar pointed out.

“I don’t think it counts when one of the staff decides to give you a pity drink,” Mumbo sighed.

“Do you think that’s what’s happening here?” Scar snorted. “I’m off the clock, you know. I’m just making friends. I’m a friendly guy. Look, why don’t I tell you a little more about myself, and you can do the same if you’d like? Great!”

He had continued to tell Mumbo about his life story, how he ended up in the UK, going to university, coming out, getting sick, dropping out, and finally after several years in and out of the hospital, ending up enrolling again while working evenings here in the bar.

Ending up in Mumbo’s bed…

Scar stretched, the delicate silk sheets slipping over his naked skin in a gentle caress. It brought to mind the way soft hands had wandered over his flesh in the dark of the small hours of the night. It had been a while, long enough he was probably going to be sore for at least half of the day. It was a pleasant sort of soreness, though.

He looked up at the face mere inches from his, feeling no shame in taking in the details of Mumbo’s appearance while he slept.

In the low lights of the bar he had not been able to tell, but from the shape of his face he suspected Mumbo would have dimples when he smiled. There was no sign of wrinkles on his skin yet, but by the sharpness of his cheekbones, he had to be in his twenties at least.

The moustache was a nice touch too, even if it had tickled terribly against Scar’s collarbones and abdomen each time Mumbo had kissed him last night.

On the subject of collarbones, Scar could only note his admiration of the rather prominent mark he had left just about Mumbo’s left one. He shivered at the thought of how the other man had whined. Perhaps he would be up for another round this morning..?

Another round… right. He had stayed past the last bus for another round. Mumbo, once he had started talking, had seemed almost compelled to share his life story as well.

“Theodore Bertram Ambrose Osborn Chace the third,” Mumbo pronounced, a seemingly impossible feat giving he was at the end of his second pint. “Former heir to the right honourable Lord Theodore Chace the second.”

Scar whistled and leaned back in the booth he had found them towards the back of the bar, though it might have gotten lost in the noise. The music was as loud as anywhere else, but they had the table to themselves and the ability to wave one of Scar’s colleagues over when they would momentarily need another refill. Mumbo seemed content enough, anyway.

“That’s quite the name. Can’t imagine any loving parent wishing learning how to spell all that on any child of theirs.”

Mumbo picked up his drink, downing the rest of the dark red liquid.

“They weren’t,” he confirmed. “Hence, Mumbo Jumbo. Easier to pronounce.”

And a name that came with less baggage, he read between the lines.

“I have this friend from Sweden - shared a flat with her when I did my bachelor’s degree. He accused me of having a Mumbo Jumbo name, and when my father disinherited me for dropping out of business school and going into engineering… well, it just fit me better. Silly, I know, but what can you do.”

“Mumbo,” he started. “My name is Scar.”

Another thing Scar was learning about Mumbo was the fact that he was a giggler, or at least the drink brought it out in him. His whole face lit up with it, even when he tried to hide it.

“So, your Swedish friend, is he the one you’re pining after?”

Mumbo shook his head. “Iskall moved back years ago. No, he’s from here. We were paired up for a pub quiz during fresher’s week and we hit it off. I think I fell a little bit in love with him the first time he spoke to me. He just… has this energy. He can be such a pest sometimes, but his happiness is always infectious. Even when he’s laughing at your face because he pranked you by glueing the cereal box to the kitchen counter again, you can’t help but join in. You ever met anyone like that?”

“Sounds a bit like my ex,” Scar said. It must be the alcohol warming his insides, he decided. Surely the ‘Yes, I think I would give up most of my earthly possessions to stretch this evening forever if it means hearing you laughter again’ was down to the alcohol.

Mumbo huffed, picking up the drinks card.

“I’m never going to get over him this way.”

Scar rested his chin in his hand, leaning against the sticky table.

“Nonsense. Look around you, Mumbo, this room is full of wonderful men all looking for a good time.”

“Hard to get to know them when the music is so loud.”

Scar laughed. “Well, I wasn’t suggesting you go looking for ‘the one’ right away. But a night with a handsome man might be a good first step.”

Scar hoped he never got tired of watching Mumbo blush. It was just so… cute.

“What, like a one-night stand?” he asked.

“Exactly.”

“I’ve never… I’ve never done that any sooner than the third date,” Mumbo confessed.

“Never too late to try something new,” Scar suggested. “If you want to, that is.”

Mumbo made a noncommittal sound, wringing his hands.

“Just a suggestion. I’m sure there are many other things you could do to create some distance. A holiday, maybe? I hear Paris is nice this time of year. Or maybe a new hobby? Something to get you out of the house”

Mumbo bit his lip.

“Maybe… There’s one thing I’m wondering, though. Why are you doing this, Scar?”

Why was he doing this?

Mumbo was good company, and Scar liked people. In the backroom, the closest he got to social interaction was Samuel showing up to replace him for the late shift, and while the people on his course were nice enough, most of them were a decade younger than him and straight out of sixth form. And Cub, of course, but when Cub would be home in their little two-bedroom flat above the Chinese restaurant was anyone’s guess.

And shoot him, Scar liked to see people happy, and he liked to believe there was people out there for everyone, helping Mumbo find his (or at least the courage to find them) wasn’t such a bad use of his time.

“This is the first new thing that has happened to me in weeks,” he admitted. “I don’t get out a lot - just work and school. I’ve already missed my bus, and the taxi market will be a nightmare at this hour, so I’m stuck here for at least another hour until the Friday evening rush passes. And you’re interesting, I suppose.”

“That was… very honest,” Mumbo said after a pause.

“I tend to be. That a problem?

“No, not at all. Makes it a lot easier when I don’t have to second guess. Dating, making friends - I’m a bit of a spoon with these things.”

Scar laughed. The alcohol was getting to him, he could tell, because the idea of being Mumbo’s friend made something in his chest feel all warm and fussy.

“Do you want to know one thing I don’t think I will ever get tired of? You British people and your funny little sayings. ‘A bit of a spoon’, that’s adorable.” He grinned, doing an excellent job of imitating Mumbo’s accent in his own humble opinion. “Well then, Mumbo, as someone who has been very much enjoying making friends with you - how would you like a sample of my famous, internationally renowned Scar Bontemps wingman service?”

“If you promise me not to try to do an English accent again, I think I’d agree to just about anything.”

Scar gasped. “I am great at accents, Mumbo! I bet you the next round I can convince someone I am British.”

“Well, if you’re handing out free drinks, I won’t say no.”

Scar stood up, taking the first few steps towards the door before he realised what Mumbo had just implied.

“Now, hold on just a moment, mister,” he protested. “That’s it! I’m going to prove you wrong, right away.”

Scar’s head ached, a reminder of just how that bet had turned out for him. The first round of shots had been his treat, the second bought by Mumbo. Dutch courage, he had called it.

Mumbo would surely have an advil somewhere… or whatever they were called this side of the pond. However, trapped between a wall and a man sleeping like a rock, Scar stood little chance of finding them.

It was very gentlemanly of Mumbo to begin stirring just when his need for pain relief was getting urgent, Scar thought.

He moaned, perhaps a sign he too was suffering for last night’s escapades, and tightened his hold on Scar’s waist.

Scar relaxed, letting himself be pulled against Mumbo’s chest, only squirming a little when his hip started protesting at the odd angle.

“Good morning,” he said.

Mumbo sighed, hiding his face in the crook of Scar’s neck. “Hey.”

The way he was petting Scar’s back was sweet, the gravelly tone his voice had taken on from sleep sending a shiver down his spine.

“Something wrong?” Mumbo asked, prodding himself up on one of his elbows.

Scar’s back lamented the new angle he was lying at and he adjusted himself, then adjusted Mumbo with hesitant hands, until he was comfortable again.

“I think an elephant walked through and stepped on my head while I slept - or perhaps a marching band took up residence on the inside of my skull.” At Mumbo’s puzzled, half-asleep expression, he added: “My head hurts.”

Mumbo hummed, the scruff on his cheeks tickling the sensitive skin of Scar’s neck when he leaned in to kiss his shoulder in sympathy.

“Wait here,” Mumbo told him, wriggling out from under Scar and standing up.

Despite his pounding head Scar could not help but lament the dim light of the bedroom. The end of the night was clear to him, but only in flashes. Ones that, sadly, did not include as much detail of what Mumbo looked like naked as Scar would have liked.

However, being a man of the arts, Scar had to admit there was something truly aesthetic about the way the sunlight that slipped in through the curtains lit up Mumbo’s side. One stripe of light painted on his pale skin, filtering through the speckles of body hair and nestling into the curve where his leg joined his torso. As Mumbo retreated into the en suite bathroom, it paned over his backside, upwards, playing with his silky black hair.

How would it feel on a sunny day, warmed by the sun, Scar wondered? He wiggled his fingers against the sheets in a vain effort to satiate the itch to find out.

Mumbo returned a moment later with two pills and a glass of water.

Scar eyed them sceptically.

“You keep your glassware in your bathroom?” he asked, feeling entitled to judge the man at least a little after sleeping with him.

“Only one glass,” Mumbo excused, not close enough that Scar could make out his blush in the dark. “Sometimes when I’m working on a project, I get a little… focused. seeing it next to the basin reminds me to eat and drink. It’s clean.”

“You’re a funny one, Mumbo Jumbo,” Scar told him, accepting the water and the painkillers, downing both.

“In the best ways only, I hope,” Mumbo said, flopping back on the bed with a soft grunt.

Scar leaned over him to put the glass on the nightstand, using his position to lay down half on top of Mumbo.

“Just need a moment to wake up properly.”

The last part of the sentence trailed off into a yawn. He stretched his arms above his head, bending his wrist just in time to avoid hitting the wooden windowsill.

As he settled back down, arms wrapping around Scar, it struck Scar how comfortable Mumbo was in his own space. It suited him.

The Scar Bontemps Wingman service was renowned in his circle of friends. Ren liked to say that in another lifetime Scar may have been a travelling salesman, a conman, or possibly both.

Scar wasn’t sure about that, but he did know he was good at this.

Matchmaking was easy. It was all about understanding two fundamental things: 1) everyone wanted something 2) everyone had something to give.

On dark days and long evenings watching the security feed, he often found himself circling the thought that the only reason he found it so easy to talk about others and so hard to talk about himself was that he doubted whether there was truly anyone out there who would be interested in what he had to offer.

With Mumbo it was easy. The man was obviously attractive, passionate, and charming. He had all but convinced himself setting Mumbo up with someone would be as simple as to introduce him to whatever man he had his eyes set on. Mumbo was attractive, passionate, and polite. His laughter was infectious, one evening in his company enough to put Scar in a good mood.

“So,” Scar asked, hand on the bar counter to steady himself after the second shot. “Anyone catching your eye?”

For the first time since leaving the room, Mumbo surveyed the busy room. From the small dance floor - currently dominated by five women who had arrived together and seemed to have some intricate constellation of relationships between them, judging by how a different pairing in the group were kissing every time Scar looked over. To the door, opening and closing and letting what little fresh air was able to slip in into the bar as guests went out into the cold winter air for a smoke. Finally, at the end of the bar where a group of men a year or two their junior were surveying the crowd with feigned disinterest. Bingo.

“How about those three?” he asked, nodding towards the three, well, twinks was the word that came to mind.

“Erh,” Mumbo said eloquently. “Sure?”

“Which of the three do you like?”

Mumbo looked at Scar for another long moment before surveying the group.

“The one to the right,” he revealed. “He looks stronger.”

Muscular men were Mumbo’s type, then. Scar made a mental note of it in case this first attempt didn’t work out.

“Ready?” Scar asked, draping an arm over Mumbo’s shoulder.

“As I’ll ever be,” Mumbo replied, shoulders tense enough that Scar’s own trapezius twinged in sympathy.

Mumbo, Scar quickly learned, was not an easy commodity to sell.

He obviously had plenty of qualities, which Scar dropped artfully into conversation. Why, my good friend Mumbo is an engineer, did you know? Very smart. He volunteers at a repair workshop, on top of working at a garage. Mechanics are so strong, don’t you agree? Who doesn’t love a man covered in oil and sweat? And look at him. How many men do you know that are willing to make the effort of wearing a suit every day?

That part was easy.

The hard part was when the commodity you were trying to sell seemed adamant to fight back against you.

Mumbo, while technically an engineer, needed to become a fully-fledged civil engineer before he could use his degree for anything, so really he was just like any other master’s student. The repair workshop was only to buff his resume, and the mechanic mostly had him doing consulting work - flying machines and cars weren’t so different after all.

The suit though, oh he could talk about the suit! Scar thought he had finally succeeded - on the fourth try - until Mumbo started talking about the seventh tie knot, illustrating how to tie it and detailing when to wear it. Scar made a mental note to go to his new friend next time he had a formal event, and to not bring up his manner of dress with the next man they approached unless he seemed particularly interested in the history of cufflinks.

“I don’t blame you, you know,” Mumbo hiccupped over another shot of whisky, provided by Scar. “I’m just not good at this.”

“Nonsense,” Scar told him, downing his own drink and rubbing Mumbo’s shoulder comfortingly.

(Despite his protests that he did very little practical work at the garage, Mumbo was rather strong, wasn’t he? How had Scar not noticed sooner…)

“You just need to get out of your head. Maybe we’re just going about this wrong. What if instead of approaching them, we get them to approach you?”

“And how would we do that, mate?” Mumbo asked, his arm slipping under Scar’s and providing much needed support.

“Dance with me?” he suggested. “We’ll get everyone wondering who those handsome men on the dance floor are, and when they come to ask, all you need to do is seal the deal.”

“I’m a terrible dancer,” Mumbo confessed. “Can’t dance a single step.”

“It is past midnight, everyone will have had enough to drink that it won’t matter.”

Mumbo sighed. “If you think it’ll work…”

He took a step back, offering a light bow before offering Scar his hand. Scar bit his lip not to laugh. It made sense, it did. Old money and formalities often went hand in hand. Mumbo had probably been taught how to waltz, or something equally formal.

Scar took the offered hand, placing it at his waist.

“You stand there,” he instructed, positioning himself closer to the centre of the floor, and Mumbo outwards so he could be seen from the bar and the booths. That suit really did wonders for his backside…

Now, Scar was not much of a dancer either. He liked it, but there were the obvious challenges.

“You okay?” Mumbo asked.

“My balance isn’t great without my walker.”

Mumbo’s hold on him tightened, and Scar had to wonder why he was suppressing the urge to shiver in such a hot room.

“We can leave if you’d like?” Mumbo offered.

“I was promised a dance, Mr Jumbo, and I’m holding you to that.”

Scar placed a hand over Mumbo’s chest, feeling the other’s racing heart even through the layers of fabric.

“Just hold on to me?” he requested.

“Of course,” Mumbo agreed.

They started out slow. Scar moved, Mumbo followed, the two of them simply swaying to the music.

Whatever song must be popular, because soon a handful of other bar patrons joined the previously sparsely populated dance floor. For a moment Scar thought he might have succeeded in getting someone to see Mumbo for the get he was, but instead the additional people just pushed him further into Mumbo’s arms.

Mumbo’s hand crept around his body, settling on Scar’s lower back instead of his hip, holding him in place.

“You okay?” he asked Mumbo.

“I was just about to ask you that.”

Scar smiled at him. They were chest to chest now, and he had to wrap his hands around Mumbo’s neck to even have room for his arms.

“You’re so warm,” Mumbo told him, swaying to the tune of the music again. Being as close as he was, Scar was moved by him.

“Is that bad?” he asked, both feeling and seeing how Mumbo shivered when Scar’s breath ghosted over his neck.

“No,” Mumbo said.

The music picked up speed, and so did their dance. For the first time since they had left the safety of the karaoke room, Mumbo looked relaxed.

His eyes were on Scar, his attention solely on moving to the music.

How had Scar not noticed Mumbo’s eyes sooner? Dark grey framing light, reflecting the flashing lights on the dance floor back to Scar.

The song changed, but Scar was no longer listening.

Mumbo’s hips were against his, the two of them sharing heated breaths as they continued dancing past the fifth song. Aches and pains forgotten, there was only the beat of the music and the beating of their hearts.

For every rejection Mumbo had run his hands through his short hair, leaving it a mess at this point. Perhaps Scar should smooth it out?

He wanted to do so, anyway.

He got as far as the short hair at the nape of Mumbo’s neck. Mumbo bit his lip, sighing, and Scar could not help but watch those pink lips move.

Oh.

Mumbo was tall, and had to bend his head down experimentally. Scar approached, both of them inching closer, and-

His lips were soft, his tongue inquisitive where it met Scar’s own. He tasted of fruity ciders and burning alcohol, the scent of his subtle cologne somewhat mixing into the taste in a way that wasn’t altogether unpleasant.

Whether Mumbo was consciously tightening his hold to support Scar when his knees began to go shaky, Scar wasn’t sure.

Scar heard himself moan, and Mumbo responded by biting at his lip.

He gasped, breaking away for breath.

“Cheeky,” he accused, leaning against Scar. “Do that again?”

Mumbo continued as he had all evening, following most of Scar’s whims. This time, however, he cut the kiss short, trailing down Scar’s jaw and neck instead. Oh, how pleased he was he had worn something low-cut tonight.

One of his hands remained on Mumbo’s shoulder - a necessity, his legs were still as soft as jelly beneath him - while the other trailed down Mumbo’s back, and settling on his ass- arse- whatever.

“Scar,” Mumbo sighed. “You sure about this?”

“Wouldn’t be kissing you otherwise,” he replied. “Let’s get out of here?”

“My flatmate won’t be home,” Mumbo agreed.

“Mine will be.”

“My place it is.”

And from there… well, somewhere between heady kisses, needy touches, and affirmations that neither of them expected the other to be at their best after how many drinks they had had, they ended up at the back of a cab, and then in Mumbo’s little terrace house.

“Upstairs,” Mumbo said somewhere south of Scar’s collarbone and north of his left pec, nimble fingers flying over the buttons of Scar’s shirt. It did make sense, with how much Mumbo knew about suits, that he would know how to most effectively remove a button-up. How very talented he was.

“Not great at those,” Scar told him, his walker left at the front door alongside their shoes.“Sofa?”

“Flatmate will be home by morning.”

Scar sighed, tilting his head back to allow Mumbo better access. He had never been with a man with facial hair before, and was delighted to learn Mumbo’s moustache tickled against his skin.

“I’ll help you?” Mumbo offered.

“Sure,” Scar said. By morning he would be decidedly more sober, so getting back down shouldn’t be such a challenge.

He smiled, the events of last night playing out before his mind’s eye.

Kisses that started out hesitant, while hands explored unknown paths, soon turning heated, clothes coming off in the process.

Where last night Mumbo’s body had been marked by teeth, it was now decorated in pretty little bruises. Scar knew he was much the same.

The alcohol had still been clouding their heads, burning past inhibitions, but remdering them slow. To compensate they had moved at a leisurely pace. Warm, soft, and caring, ending with both of them on their sides, inquisitively familiarising themselves with where to touch to make each other sigh in satisfaction.

Mumbo, he learned, had never been with anyone trans before. He was a quick study, though, diligently prepping Scar, carefully listening to Scar’s instructions when he told Mumbo how to hold up his legs so it wouldn’t hurt his joints now or tomorrow.

It hadn’t exactly been the best sex in the world, both of them were drunk after all, but Scar was certain he had never felt so comfortable after a one night stand before.

He was still catching his breath, lying comfortably on this side, when Mumbo slipped into the bathroom. Scar could hear the water running, and after a few minutes, he returned, looking less flushed and much cleaner.

“Sorry,” he had said, lying back down with all the grace of a falling tree, offering his open arms to Scar. “Just needed to clean up.”

Scar could recall waving it off, already cuddled against Mumbo and drifting off to sleep.

In the light of the morning, he kissed Mumbo’s shoulder and was rewarded by him snuggling closer.

“I’m awake,” he mumbled, adding a snore that told another story entirely.

It was sweet, and Scar did nothing to resist the urge to kiss him again, planting one on Mumbo’s jaw.

Mumbo shifted to look down at Scar.

“Goodness, you’re handsome.”

He said this with a surprising amount of clarity.

Scar knew this already, but it was nice to hear it anyway.

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

Mumbo’s hand settled on Scar’s waist, his fingers spreading and tracing patterns on the sensitive skin.

“Can I kiss you?”

[Still lying in bed, Mumbo and Scar agree that they both want to get to know each other better. They both find each other interesting and attractive, and even if it doesn’t turn into romance they think they could become good friends.

Mumbo goes to have a shower. Scar thinks of joining, but is hungry. Mumbo tells him where the kitchen is and to help himself to whatever he’d like.

Scar goes into the kitchen and is greeted by Grian, Mumbo’s flatmate - and his ex!

Scar is thrilled to see him. Grian tells him he regrets breaking up without giving it a try, he’s been thinking a lot about Scar, and wishes they at least hadn’t lost contact. Scar doesn’t blame him, and just looks forward to reconnecting.

Grian suggests a time and Scar has to decline because he has just planned a date with Mumbo that day.

Grian reacts weirdly to this, but before Scar can ask, Mumbo joins the in the kitchen. Scar happily tells Mumbo that he and Grian know each other, and how]

#posting from my phone so sorry if the formatting is bad #part of this writing exercise to me is not editing it #so this is what you get I’m afraid #hermitcraft #hermitshipping #redscape #mumscarian #writing

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littlefreya · 2 years

Text

Behind Blue Eyes

Summary: Beaten and broken, August Walker walks the streets of an unnamed city while he is taken by sudden longing.

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (August's POV)

Words: 2k

Warnings: +18, angst, bad language, mentions of sex, mentions of alcohol, mentions of a breakup, longing, love, heartache. August being poetic AF and August being a prick and stealing candy.

A/N: This story was in my WIP drive for 2 years now and I finally got inspired to finish it. Beta'd by the amazing @agniavateira. I hope you'll enjoy it, I admit it's different from my usual stuff.

Behind Blue Eyes

Ghostly smoke carried onto the autumn breeze. It permeated my nostrils, making my throat itch and my tear ducts sting. The entire street smelled like burning elm leaves and some sort of tarty odour that resembled charred pumpkins. Might have been some ritualistic witchcraft.

This time of the year made all sorts of freaks swarm the streets.

I should know, I was one of them. With blood seeping out my nostrils and caking my moustache, I looked like something that crawled out of hell myself.

Stumbling to the hotel, my feet nearly failed me. Whatever I was tonight, it wasn’t a man but a shadow at best, no more than the swarming pack of ghouls and demons that rushed toward me. Their white and green faces leered with taunt, eyes glowering hollow and fangs of red plastic greeted me with an insult.

Fucking kids.

Unbalanced, I swayed from one side to the other. My long arm casually lunged forward, my hand diving straight into the pumpkin-shaped bucket a little boy was holding. Not batting a single eyelash, I grabbed a handful of candies.

“Hey, mister! That’s mine!” The kid whined with protest, lifting his mask to look at me with a distressed pout.

Unfazed by his stupid face, I snorted and stored the pillaged Halloween snacks down the pocket of my trench coat, offering him a scolding frown instead. “You damn kids should be in fucking bed, it’s almost 2 am.”

Was it actually? I lost track of time after my sixth glass of bourbon.

“Fuck off, boomer!” They shouted at me as I walked away. The Cheshire grin smeared on my face hurt my cheeks; I haven’t been this amused since I hate-fucked Hunt’s daughter against the window at HQ. But my smile shortly waned as every bone in my body kindly reminded me of the beating I took a few hours earlier.

‘Screw this night.’ I balled my fist around the sweets in my pocket and spat a mouthful of blood on the curb. This assignment didn’t go as smooth as planned; someone informed the target and he was well aware and prepared for my arrival. As he mauled me down and pulled out a box-cutter I was sure this was going to be the one where I kicked the bucket.

A brush with death on the night of Halloween, how poetic.

'More like pathetic.' In that glacial moment when the blade kissed my throat, the only thing that lingered on my mind was her.

How the phantom of her lips kissed below my sideburn, her scent so vivid yet drifting away. I couldn’t grasp it, couldn’t keep the sensation that was her entity. As the remnants of her reverie completely faded, came the pure rage. That asshole didn’t stand a chance once I gained the upper hand and started beating him to a bleeding pulp.

I needed a drink after that—at least four to dull the pain and erase those ridiculous thoughts.

Flares of striking pink and orange blinded my eyes as I finally made it to the hotel’s lobby. The honeyed spirit that laved my veins failed to take the edge off; rather than dimming my senses, it enhanced every physical and mental pain while I oscillated into a whirlpool of hurt. One by one, the memories hit me like a flash, gnawing at me while I made my way through the empty neon-lit lobby and advanced toward the elevator.

Did I even remember what she looked like? Or was her face altered and changed by the fickle fingers of memory?

Trying to keep on my feet I barged into the lift, surprising a middle-aged lady who stood against the translucent glass wall with eyes wide open and disdain written all over her wrinkled face. She curled her nose, either because of how badly I smelled or how bludgeoned I must have looked.

“Ever had sex in an elevator?” I teased, grabbing the flaccid bulge in my groin with a suggestive wink. Horrified, she grunted at me and fled in an instant.

Still laughing, I took the elevator and then sauntered toward the hotel room. My amusement surely died as my chest burnt with every heave and the unmistakable taste of iron climbed up my throat.

“Shit…” I mumbled. Exhausted, I sank into the cradling grave that was my bed, and my eyes soared to the ceiling. Memories of her lying beside me haunted my thoughts; the tender pads of her fingers, hovering over my hairy chest, the fragrance of her skin - subtle, like dry autumn leaves, wafted over me.

The idea that I might die here, in a city so far away from her, without her even knowing crept into my mind and a sense of painful hollowness wove in my gut.

If I could only speak to her, one last time…

“I still have her number,” I mumbled into the dim light.

I never lost it. Like an idiot I kept moving it from one burner phone to the other, lying to the agency that it was an important informant. Fishing for the device from my pants pocket, I stared at the black mirror and stroked a bloody thumb over the opaque reflection.

The last memory of her was sobs and screams, her pretty little face swelling as she cried because I told her I didn’t care about her.

And I really didn’t. At the time.

'Did I?'

My thumb slid to unlock the phone, seeking the directory for her name. And there it was, imprinted black on white. Just a name of a girl—a common name even—and yet my throat clenched just from uttering it on silent, chafed lips.

“Don’t do it…” I tried to reason with myself, remembering how she screamed at me that she never wants to see me again. Her eyes were so red I was afraid she'd cry blood and despite it all, she was pretty when she cried.

“Don’t be that idiot…” I warned myself.

But then the sound of the line ringing filled the room like the guilt that poisoned my heart.

'What heart?' I chuckled bitterly, my eyes squinting at the brightness of the screen while I stared and waited to hear her voice. “Answer princess, what time is it there anyway? Is it late?”

“Hello? Who is this…?”

My entire body stiffened once her voice penetrated my head. Crisp and sharp, buffered by the phone line yet her timbre was soft as always, just the way it was when we used to speak before that when I would call to say goodnight while on a mission. God, I lied to this woman more than I ever lied to anyone else in my entire life.

I didn’t deserve her, and yet I wanted her too badly.

“Hello?” she asked again, slightly groggy but not even an inch of agitation.

“Princess…” Finally, I managed to speak.

Silence fell on the other line and then her breath shuddered. She swallowed and exhaled loudly and all I could think of was how much I wanted to touch her face right now. It’s been a year, and yes, I might have been with a dozen other girls, but none of them was my sweet little angel with her tragic, soulful eyes.

“August…”

After all this time, my name was on those lips again. Instinctively I scoffed on the bed, bliss warm and golden surged through my tendons. She remembered my voice… she didn’t hang up right away.

“It’s three in the morning.” There was a deep sadness in her voice but no signs of anger, not that I could hear, so I pressed on, letting hope lead me astray.

“It’s me, yeah. Did I wake you up?”

“Are you drunk?”

I sniffed my own breath, the sour scent caused me to curl my nose. “No,” I lied. But she wasn’t fooled for a second. Words, as few as they were, slurred and she knew I was too proud to ever call a woman in order to tell her how much I fucking missed her.

“Are you alone right now?” The thought of someone lying next to her made me clench my jaw. Surely, my heartbeats slowed and like a cougar, I tried to listen to her bedroom to detect any shift of fabric, any weight on the mattress that wasn’t hers.

“Don’t do this,” she deflected, “you left me, remember? You didn’t want a relationship.”

‘I made a mistake, I want you, princess.’ I knew that now more than ever. I wanted to wake up next to her every morning, to have her sleeping on my chest, her little head resting on my pec while I caressed her hair.

Maybe with her, I could be normal. In my mind, I could see it all clearly; little potted herbs growing on our kitchen’s window ledge, friends coming over for a summer BBQ while I’m flipping burgers and she’s serving rolls in a summer dress. She would roll her eyes at my bad puns while I’ll sneak a cup at that delicious ass.

My sight became even blurrier, and something wet and warm rolled down the corners of my eyes. With a broken voice, I half-whispered, “I miss you…”

She remained silent, or at least she tried to, but the sound of her little sniffles was noticeable even through the hand that must have covered her mouth.

“Remember Malibu? Remember how I ate you out on the beach, during sunrise? You were so beautiful when you came around my mouth, your body arching on the sand, the first rays of sunlight kissed your nipples and showered your torso with warmth. You told me you could love me forever that day. Do you still feel that way?”

She pulled at her nose and swallowed slowly. I could see those beautiful eyes going glassy and for a moment there, I felt like that jerk again—the jerk that made his beautiful woman cry.

“Do you?” I asked again.

“Did you just call me to validate yourself?”

Answering a question with a question. Of course, my woman had always been wise.

“How many others have there been? Is there a list? Are you going through us all right now because you are bored and need to feel like a man?”

A faint grin stretched across my face. There it was, the anger, but it wasn’t because she hated me. No. It meant she still cared and perhaps she was even a little bit jealous if she asked about ‘others’.

“Angel, in all those long, excruciating months there was just you. I only ever wanted you.”

“August…”

An odd wail came from the other line, cutting her off mid-sentence. Alarmed, she let a sharp gasp and covered the handle to muffle the sounds.

‘Did she get a cat?’ I frowned dumbfounded but briefly the realisation hit and I shot up from the bed, pressing the phone so close to my ear it seared.

It’s been a year, enough time for...

“Is that…? Is it my ba…”

“I am sorry, I have to go,” she responded in obvious panic.

“Wait!”

I could hear her rushing out of bed, the rustling of the fabric whooshing while the cries grew louder and ravenous. “Please, August, just go to bed. You will forget all about me in the morning and move on with your life like you always did.”

The connection was severed as she hung up the phone. The cold, monotonous tune screamed through the device like the life support monitor of a dead man. But at that very moment, my heart was anything but lifeless; it pounded in my chest as if it was beating for the first time in many years.

Half-sat on the bed, I exhaled with sheer astonishment, my fingers still tingling at the discovery as I held onto the phone. 'You couldn’t let me leave, couldn’t you princess?' She kept a piece of me inside her, a piece that will forever symbolise how much she truly loved me.

A breathless chuckle left my throat. Fuck, it hurt but I couldn't care less anymore. Amid the blood and crushed bones, hope began to sprout, spreading throughout my chest and bringing life to what used to feel like a graveyard.

After all the years, there was a purpose, and I knew what had to be done. And maybe she'd hate me at first, perhaps she'd resent me for coming back, but now that we were a family, there was no way I was to be denied.

'I’m coming home, baby. Daddy is coming home.’

#henry cavill #august walker #august walker x reader #henry cavill x reader #august walker fanfiction

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